


Ho giocato con i tuoi battiti, ma mai con il tuo cuore

by dame5



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 17:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: There’s nothing incongruent or rehearsed about Paulo’s smile either. His large, gray eyes narrow—creasing at the edges, while his lips tug more towards the right. A slanted grin. But it’s how Claudio knows this is undiluted, genuine Paulo.Claudio wants to give him a smile to match, wear his bruised, love-defeated heart out in the curves spread on his lips across his face, but he’s afraid of how stupid it’ll make him look. The corners of his lips tug slightly downwards. A self-imposed restraint on his enthusiasm.





	Ho giocato con i tuoi battiti, ma mai con il tuo cuore

**Author's Note:**

> For Mo.
> 
> A profound thank you for your shared enthusiasm of all things football, and for your valued editing suggestions and feedback.
> 
> This fic should have been written years ago. When I first laid eyes on [this gif](https://celeste-escribe.tumblr.com/post/174245669781). I haven't been able to get them off my mind since, and it's indeed a pity that not much has been written for this pairing.

Claudio doesn’t believe in luck. Never has. Probably never will.

Claudio believes in work. He believes in sacrifice, gratitude and putting out kindness into the world instead of donning evil eye pendants or burning sage to keep dark energy at bay. He has faith that tangible virtues are what get you places. His tattoo on the inside of his forearm,  _Impossible is nothing_ , is the incarnation of his commitment to this belief.

He draws inspiration from personal experience that it’s work. _Work_. And not luck gets you places.

He never had a footballer’s build; he was a beautiful boy with sun-kissed blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a jawline so  _sharp_ —you could cut yourself on it if you weren’t careful.

A tall, lanky boy, underdeveloped and inclined to all things graceful and delicate, Claudio accepts early on, that he isn’t necessarily the poster child of grit. His gracile features and mannerisms that eventually earned him the nickname of “ _principino_ ” fed into his father’s doubts whether he’d make it as a professional.

But he proved him wrong.  _He proved everyone wrong_.

On the jacket of his first autobiographical book he’s published last year, he’s quoted as describing himself as a man who’s made two dreams come true in one—to play football for the team he most loves.  _La Juve_.

So while nature would wedge a stick in the spokes wheeling his childhood dreams, by predisposing him to softness and a genteel demeanor, work and dedication gave him _wings_. They would help him develop agility, and a spectacularly curated ability to see far ahead of the unfolding game to create opportunities. Legend would have it that David, the scrawny shepherd boy that his father believed would amount to nothing would render Goliath the giant to his feet with a sling. And so it was with Claudio. For the spaces he couldn’t open with brute force or physicality, he devoted himself to study his opponent’s weaknesses. Their arrogance and overconfidence in their strength gave way to carelessness. What Claudio seizes as opportunities to do them in, and going for the kill in ways no one sees coming.

So yes. It was  _work_ , not  _fate_ that allowed him to achieve that impossible dream.

And this is why Claudio doesn’t buy into the idea of fate. And neither does he believe in the idea that he could cleanse his aura with crystals, or use guided meditation to visualize pink light to re-energize his chakras. It’s not even that he dismisses it as hippy-dippy  _nonsense_.

_It’s just not who he is._

So when Claudio arrives in Rome after vacationing a few days alone in Ibiza, and finds that his flight to Turin is delayed by an hour, he doesn’t blame it on fate. It’s  _chance_.

It is also by chance that he forgets to take his water bottle with him, which forces him to buy a new one at the nearest kiosk.

And, it is by chance, that as he’s paying, Claudio hears a recognizable laugh that makes him forget to expel the air from his lungs and tense his shoulders. It’s this particular airy bravado of a laugh, that’s etched too deep in his auditory memory, that tells him with unmistakable certainty— _it’s Paulo_.

Claudio turns, eyes scanning the linoleum clad hallways and the bustle of passengers.

Paulo is a few meters away. So close. And yet so far. Claudio observes with reeled-in tenderness how Paulo’s head tilts forward, and the strands of his dark brown hair fall casually over his brow. Paulo’s eyes are downcast as he’s walking beside his girlfriend, Antonella. He’s carrying her designer bag over his shoulder while balancing his backpack on his other.

Paulo is just that kind of guy.

It’s one of those classic moments where Claudio wants to call out his name, but a part of him doesn’t. That other part of him wants Paulo to notice him. To be the one that make the first move.

And of course it has to be Antonella that catches sight of him, her voice wavering with emotion as she calls out “ _Claaaudio_ ” while gesturing to him to come over. Paulo turns abruptly, eyes widening and jaw dropping open when he sees him. The look of surprise melts into a smile in the amount of time it takes the chambers of his heart to contract.

There’s nothing incongruent or rehearsed about Paulo’s smile either. His large, gray eyes narrow—creasing at the edges, while his lips tug more towards the right. A slanted grin. But it’s how Claudio knows this is undiluted, _genuine_ Paulo.

Claudio wants to give him a smile to match, wear his bruised, love-defeated heart out in the curves spread on his lips across his face, but he’s afraid of how stupid it’ll make him look. The corners of his lips tug slightly downwards. A self-imposed restraint on his enthusiasm.

A love like this—a love that can _never_ be needs to be curbed. Underfed. _Starved_. Anything to keep it from growing into something it’s not supposed to be.

He puts his heart on a leash as he’s walking towards Paulo and Antonella. But Paulo runs towards him, practically falls into his arms so that Claudio has to catch him. Claudio feels Paulo’s soft, silky hair against his face, and traces of the familiar woodsy scent from his cologne invade his senses, bringing him back to a time he doesn’t want to think of.

Paulo kisses his neck, lips pressing against the spot where Claudio’s pulse beats the hardest. His heart is thumping so fast, Claudio swears that his pulse kisses Paulo back.

It all happens so quickly, that it might be unintentional. A mistake even. But Claudio knows it’s not a mistake when Paulo releases him from his embrace, and his fingers trail down from his shoulder down his arm to his hand. Claudio doesn’t resist as Paulo grasps his hand.

No. _This is not a mistake._

“Weren’t you? Wait, I thought you…you…were back in _Torino_ yesterday.” Paulo’s eyes dart nervously from his face to the tassels of Claudio’s scarf.

Claudio can’t take his eyes off Paulo. He takes him in, recommitting his facial features to memory. The birthmark beneath his right eye, his long, black eyelashes bearing down on his tanned cheeks, the curve of his shapely eyebrows, and the God-given pink of his mouth. Claudio translates Paulo’s stuttering verses like the love-sick fool that he’s become. The fool Paulo has turned him into: _I’ve been thinking of you. I know your routine. I know your schedule._

Claudio feels his mouth go dry. He blames it on the cold pumped in airplane air he’s been breathing in. He breaks the seal of his water bottle and indulges in a quick sip.

“I took an extra day.” Claudio shrugs. He becomes consciously aware of how close they’re standing by each other, and he makes himself take a small step back. He pinches Paulo’s shoulder with playful affection and tugs on the drawstrings of Paulo’s hoodie to even them out.

There is so much that Claudio wants to say. Thousands of words hang by his mouth, begging to be spoken. And all he can say to keep the conversation going is:

“We train again in two days. Then _Verona_ next week.”

“I know what you _mean_ —taking that extra day. Feels like it’s been _forever_ since summer vacation.” Paulo speaks, his voice lowered and nostalgic; his eyes look to the side as if he’s trying to remember something.

And Claudio can’t help but translate once more: _It’s been 7 months since we vacationed together in Sardinia. It’s been 7 months since we had too much prosecco to loosen up and throw away every care in the world. It has been forever, Claudio._

 _It’s been 7 months since you last fell asleep inside me_.

Claudio looks over Paulo’s shoulder, smiling his shy smile as he waves hello to Antonella. The poor girl. It’s not the first time they make her a victim of the invisible impenetrable field of energy that surrounds them when they get together. It’s not her fault. It’s no one’s fault really. You don’t have a choice in matters of the heart.

Paulo blinks in rapid succession, coming back to his senses, aware of the fact that they’re not alone.

“We’re staying in Roma tonight. Anto has a business meeting tomorrow, and I agreed to—Hey, do you have a plane to catch?” Paulo asks, raising his eyebrows, just slightly concerned he’s kept Claudio behind for too long.

“My flight’s delayed. It should be arriving in about 30 minutes.” Claudio lowers his eyes to steal a glance at his watch before his eyes meet Paulo’s again.

Paulo’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Wait—don’t move. Just wait.” He commands, waving his index finger while he darts back to Antonella.

He observes as Paulo runs his hand over his girlfriend’s shoulder, as if the gesture had some magical power to wipe away her visible annoyance. She looks at him intently, lips pursed as if she isn’t convinced in whatever Paulo is proposing to her. But Claudio knows it’s going to be okay when Antonella nods in agreement and adjusts her bag over her shoulder.

She waves goodbye to Claudio, giving him a curt smile and walks off, travel bag in hand and purse slung over her shoulder. Paulo doesn’t waste a moment longer, and runs back to Claudio, linking his arm around the bend of his elbow and leads him onwards. Somewhere Claudio doesn’t know.

“I told her I was going to walk you to the gate where your plane’s departing.” Paulo speaks, picking up the pace. “ _Fuck_ , Claudio.” It comes out as an exasperated cry. “This fucking _sucks_. If _only_ —”

“Don’t—” Claudio interjects, unhooking his arm from Paulo’s grip as they continue walking.

It’s been a while. But the immediacy of what’s unfolding between them takes him back to _that_ moment.

Claudio thought that they had moved past all the apologies. Thought they had already planted their flags on the firm ground of what-you-can-and-can’t-do territory.

It doesn’t mean that Claudio hates this any less than Paulo does. It doesn’t mean that the thought of not holding each other in their arms…of not sharing their bodies again, after realizing it was a mistake is not enough pain to break open his heart seams, or fuck him up more than it already does.

Paulo latches on again.

“What’s your gate number?” he asks.

“Thirty-six” Claudio responds.

They continue walking down the corridor, everything going clockwork until Paulo makes a turn when they should have kept going straight ahead. Claudio doesn’t stop to think or to care how they look like to the scant number of passerbyers. He doesn’t stop even for a moment to think how _ridiculous_ they both look as they stumble into the nearest family restroom, and Paulo locking the door behind them.

Tucked away in their makeshift haven of industrial tiles and stainless steel, safe from wandering eyes, cameras and every goddamn thing that threatens to get in between them, Paulo takes Claudio’s face into the palms of his hands, bringing him close enough to lick into his mouth. And Claudio lets himself get into their kiss.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here…and now it’s like—oh _shit_ —” Paulo speaks over Claudio’s mouth, and he kisses him again, emptying a yearning, love-starved groan into Claudio’s mouth.

It’s a sound that reaches Claudio’s loins, making his breath shudder while he slams Paulo against the wall. The kid desperately undoes the button of Claudio’s jeans, pulling the zipper far enough to give him the wiggle room to slide them off along with his boxer briefs.

Paulo motions to get on his knees. To suck him off—but Claudio doesn’t let him. There’s just not enough time. They lose the coats. The hoodies. They’re tossed aside alongside the baggage. He gets Paulo’s jeans off. Gets him to kick off his adidas to slide them off completely. In one swift motion, he hauls Paulo’s thighs up to his hips.

It’s fast by _necessity_.

Claudio has an approaching boarding call, and Paulo hasn’t had Claudio’s cock inside him for months. Hasn’t felt the sensation of Claudio’s love carving a place to reside in him for far too long.

And despite the immediacy of everything, Claudio can’t help but think that Paulo deserves better than this. It should be like it was or better than their first time together in Cagliari, where they vacationed together for several days. Where Claudio fucked him senseless in their hotel room every night.

Paulo. His tanned, practically hairless angel should be spread out on soft Egyptian cotton sheets, while Claudio worships every bit of him. From the birthmark beneath his eye, to the smooth skin of his innermost thighs. Every digit on his hands and feet. His tongue should be working to soften the clench of his tightness in lieu of the two fingers, slick with spit and chapstick, crushed and smeared on the palm of Claudio’s hand. It’s all he has to prepare Paulo to take it.

Claudio is in. All the way. Stem to root. And he’s shaking. It’s been much too quick. And it feels much too dry. If it hurts his cock, foreskin pulled back to push himself all the way in. He can’t imagine how much it has to hurt Paulo. But the kid’s making delightful gasps and moans, grabbing fistfuls of Claudio’s shirt, every tug an urge—a plea—to move inside him.

Paulo ends up doing the work for both of them. In the little working space, he squirms, and shifts his body, pulling out in the smallest amount he’s able to and sliding back in. And Claudio feels like a teenager all over again.

“I want you Pau…want you so bad.” Lovestruck and dumbfounded, it’s all Claudio can manage to say.

Paulo has to guide one of Claudio’s hands to stroke him. He has barely thumbed over the slit of Paulo’s erection, stroking him in rhythmic beats and the kid shoots—his come splatters on the folds of his and Claudio’s shirts, scrunched up and tucked under his armpits and some of it gets on the floor. Paulo trembles, forcing himself to choke back a moan, and he buries his face in the crook of Claudio’s shoulder.

“You’re all I think about.” Paulo manages to whisper into Claudio’s ear. It comes out as if he just took a punch to the gut, that it hurts to even breathe. Claudio’s skin is buzzing, he can’t feel his face. The burn of his skin against Paulo’s skin, and the love-sickness making his guts quiver lets him know he’s about to come. He motions to pull out, but Paulo pulls Claudio deeper into his sprawl.

“Don’t you dare…don’t you fucking dare.” He begs. “Stay in there.”

Claudio spills himself inside him. Makes a greater mess of him as he delivers his final, staggering thrusts into Paulo.

There’s nothing ceremonious about the way they uncouple and hurry to dress themselves.

“Call me when you get home—I don’t care what time that is. Just please…call me.” Paulo can barely speak. His cheeks are still flushed. He pulls in to kiss Claudio goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me. We’ll catch up at morning practice.” Claudio looks up as Paulo unlocks the door. “Now go. Be a good boyfriend to Anto.”

Paulo turns and gives him a smile. But it’s not his smile. It’s the one he’s practiced. Rehearsed God knows how many times for the fans, the cameras, and all the other nonsense when he’s got to be what everyone expects him to be.

“Claudio,” Paulo speaks as he shifts his backpack over his shoulder and looks at him longingly. He waits until their eyes meet.

“Just call me.”


End file.
